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Thank you to all those who submitted a question to me via the blog or email. I’ve had a lovely time reading your questions!

I also want to apologize for taking so long to respond! I had intended to follow up after a week, but I had a family emergency that kept me occupied, but i’m back now and ready to answer your questions!

Dear Awkward Charm,

I’m actually writing a post about this, but I find that men in their 30s+ are easier at having spontaneous conversations. Most guys I’ve met in their 20s are pretty bad at it (of course my experience doesn’t speak for all women lol). Why do you think this is the case?

That’s a really great and thought-provoking question! My own experiences have taught me that guys in their 20s are like puppies. They have all the enthusiasm in the world. As a result, they are more likely to come up and introduce themselves, but they lack the ability to maintain a conversation. And as a woman in my 30s, I find more and more that I have to carry the conversation, and it’s exhausting. However, men in their 30s are a bit more refined. I think they’ve had more opportunities in life that require them to speak to a wide audience of people, whether it’s picking up a woman at a bar or talking to their senior partner at work. It’s like Curlydaz suggested, they are more content and confident with themselves. Having said all that, you find duds and gems at any age! So don’t discard anyone.

– AC

Dear Awkward Charm,

I love your awkward stories and can relate to your awkwardness. I am looking for a new job. How do you handle the awkward interview? I always freeze or babble like an idiot when they ask if I have any questions. Help!

– Shannon

Dear Shannon,

That is so sweet of you to say, thank you! I’m glad you can relate to my awkwardness. Unfortunately, that means that ,like me, you get really nervous during interviews. During every job interview i’ve ever had (and i’ve had a few), I immediately break out into a flop sweat. I go from dry as a bone to looking like I walked in out of a monsoon in about 60 seconds. And my hands and voice shake. Begging the question – who wouldn’t want to hire a sweat-soaked vibrating candidate? I mean…right? However, as my name suggests, I do have a modicum of charm that makes an occasional appearance. Regardless of how nervous I feel (or look!) or how much the interviewer frowns at me, I smile. I flash my giant chompers as much as and as naturally as I can. And no matter how sweaty my palms get, I give a firm handshake that says “Yeah, I sweat. So what? Now hire me, fool!” And believe it or not that charm and confidence has won over many an employer. Of course once you get the job, you must also remember to continue to play it cool and not forget the names of important people you interviewed with the day before…like some people have done… {ehem}. Good luck!

– AC

Dear Awkward Charm,

There’s a girl I like at work. We get along really well. The problem is, she’s kind of awkward. I really like that about her because she makes me laugh but it also makes it hard to tell if she’s flirting with me. How can I tell if an awkward girl likes me?

– Ben

Dear Ben,

Oh, Ben. First of all, let me commend you on liking someone BECAUSE of their awkwardness. Bravo! However, that awkwardness does complicate things a bit. An awkward girl’s interest in a guy is most often proven by how far out of her way she goes to ignore him. Heaven forbid we awkwards should talk to the person we like! Something horrifically embarrassing might come pouring out of our mouths! BUT, given that you work with her (and i’m guessing see her on a daily basis?) means that she’s probably more likely to flirt with you in the traditional sense (eye contact, touching, laughter, etc.) because she’s forced to be in close proximity to you. Keep in mind, awkwardness is fueled by a heightened sense of anxiety. So as nervous as you are about asking her out, she’s probably 10x more nervous about every situation in her life. It also sounds like you guys get along really well and you make her feel comfortable (or comfortable enough to seem flirtatious), which is a huge bonus in your favor! Awkwards love nothing more than being around those who put us at ease. Personally, I think you should ask her out. What’s the worse that can happen? Things get awkward? Guess what… they already are! Good luck, Ben! Keep me (us) posted!

– AC

Dearest Tia Awkward,

Why are you always soooooooooooooo AWK?

– Your Favorite Nephew

Dear “Favorite” Nephew,

First, stop speaking to me in text and write out the word “awkward”. That’s just being lazy. Second, is this because you’re still angry at me for chasing you around the living room yelling “Give your auntie a big kiss” when your friends came over? I already told you, you set me up for that one by begging me to “be cool for once”. Lastly, I wouldn’t make fun of me if I was you. We share similar genes. {squint}

My Awkward Charm blog has been in existence for a little over a year. During that time i’ve had people ask questions about awkwardness and/or charm as it relates to dating, work, etc. I always do my best to answer them, but it occurred to me that it might be more useful (and fun-er) to answer all of your questions at once.

So here is your chance to ask any of your burning questions! Just think of me as your awkward Dear Abby.

Directions:

Leave your question(s) in the comments or email awkwardcharm@gmail.com

Last year I tore a ligament in my foot after attempting (and failing) to jump over a set of dog steps. At the time I had thought that was the dumbest way to injure myself. Until about a week ago…

One minute I was standing upright. The next minute I was on the floor clutching my foot and calling for help. Luckily I hurt myself while at my mom’s house so I had someone to help me.

Mom: “What happened, mi nena?”

Me: “My foot! I think it’s broken. It hurts sooooo bad!”

Mom: “OK, I get you a foot bath”

Me: “What? Why?”

Mom: {Shrugs nonchalantly as if her daughter weren’t writhing in pain before her very eyes} “The women in my village used to say warm water with salt helps sore feet.”

Me: “This isn’t Spain during the 1910s, MOM! And I’m pretty sure my foot is BROKEN! I need modern medicine!”

After 15 more minutes of arguing the pros and cons of a foot bath, I had finally convinced my mother to drive me to the emergency room. If I thought I was going to get more sympathy from the medical staff, I was sorely mistaken.

My doctor was one of those young, arrogant types who radiated about as much warmth as the grim reaper.

Dr. Death: {Examines my foot without so much as a glance in my general direction} “Tell me, Ms. Charm, how did you injure your foot?”

Me: “Um, I was… exercising? Yes. Exercising vigorously!”

Dr. Death: {Looks up for the first time and gives me a disconcerting once over.} “Can you explain exactly what you were doing at the time of the injury?” {he asks, skeptically}

Me: {Sigh} “No. I…I was standing on my tippy toes trying to reach the Reeses peanut butter cups that my mom keeps hidden in the upper cabinets. That’s when I felt a sharp pain in my right foot and I could no longer put pressure on it. I thought maybe the overwhelming amount of weight from all the non-exercising I’ve been doing had broken my foot”

Dr. Death: {Coughs audibly. Clearly this 6’2” piece of walking arrogance doesn’t sympathize with my short girl problems} “Well the x-rays did not show any fractures or breaks. I believe it’s just a mild sprain, likely a result of a weakened ligament from your injury last year.

Me: “So you’re saying my foot isn’t broken, it’s just defective?” {mentally high-five myself for being able to be witty despite the pain}

Dr. Death: {I feel him inwardly roll his eyes} “Rest for a couple of days. Keep the foot elevated with a cold compress or soak it in some Epsom salt to decrease inflammation.”

Given my daily awkwardness (it may be getting worse with age?), I often joke with family and friends that it is my gift to them. This usually elicits a different response from people. For example, my sister rolls her eyes whereas my parents stare at me blankly (probably wondering where they went wrong in raising me?). And men… well, the men just walk away. {cough}

Except there was one day…one glorious day…while at University in which my awkwardness became a gift – literally!

Despite the fact that my dorm mate, Allie, and I lived an hour and a half away from University, her mother sent her weekly care packages. Each carefully selected item came individually wrapped in brown butcher paper. My mom’s care package consisted of her shoving a half-ton of Kraft Easy Mac into my overnight bag. Look, I get it. It sounds practical and delicious. But once you’ve eaten it twice a day every day for the better part of a semester you will never want to eat it again!

We were now nearing the end of our first semester at University and finals were upon us. All the girls in our dorm were stressed out. Not to mention I think our menstrual cycles had synced up. The usual cattiness level had escalated from Ermahgerd to Claw-your-eyes-out. I was terrified!

In a show of support during this difficult time, Allie’s mom sent the biggest care package I had ever seen. As she tore through the box, butcher paper rained down on us. I attempted to ignore her in order to study for my finals, but the allure of the care package was too much.

Must…see…inside…ohmygodshegotpoprocks!

Once the excitement of the care package (and sugar-high from the pop rocks) wore off, we were left with a mess. As usual, I began to kick Allie’s mess to her side of the room while straightening my side for the nth time that evening. That’s when Allie devised a way to get rid of the paper AND get me to do it for her. Of course, I didn’t realize that’s what it was at the time…

A photograph of me wrapped as a gift exists somewhere, but I cannot find it. However, this is a fair representation.

She suggested we use the butcher paper to dress me up as a giant present so that we could give the girls a laugh while also giving them a break from studying. Before I could say anything, Allie had already wrapped me up like a mummy, complete with Christmas bows.

Me: “Allie, I can’t see! Cut me some eye holes.”

Allie: “No! Half the fun is guessing who is inside the present. Don’t worry. I’ll guide you down the hall.”

Me: “Ok, but don’t make me run into walls or anything.”

Allie: {giggling}

Me: “Allie!”

Allie: “Oh my gosh, I woooooon’t.”

Me: {Begin bouncing down the hall because Allie bound my legs too tight. Immediately run into a wall} “Allie!!”

The routine involved Allie knocking on a door, singing a Christmas carol, and I would do a sort of awkward, bouncy dance. Then we would both shout “happy finals” and move on to the next room.

After about the 10th room, the inadequate air hole somewhere behind my right ear was no longer sufficient. I was beginning to black out. Allie grabbed onto the protrusion most closely resembling my left elbow and quick-bounced me back to our room.

In the end, we made an entire hall of hormonal, stressed out young women laugh so hard they nearly wet themselves. Or so I was told. I don’t know. I couldn’t really see anything.

I now find myself living in an area in which valet parking is annoyingly complimentary due to the fact that you cannot park unless you valet.

Even my youngest readers can remember a time when socialites and celebutants, such as Paris Hilton and Britney Spears, couldn’t get out of a vehicle without flashing their “lady” bits to the world.

It is only after being repeatedly subjected to valet parking that I can now understand the struggles of Paris Hilton. {cough} I’m sorry; did that sentence just formulate in my brain and come tumbling out of my mouth? Yes. Yes it did.

I say “annoyingly complementary”, because I do not drive a luxury vehicle. I drive a Honda. Although I adore my reliable little vehicle, I do not enjoy waiting in line behind a Maserati only to see the look of utter disappointment on the face of the valet attendant when I hand him an actual car key instead of some futuristic-looking gadget.

Then there is the matter of exiting the vehicle. Maybe it’s because I am petite? Or maybe I am just incapable of being sophisticated? But I cannot seem to gracefully exit a vehicle. And, unfortunately, the valet attendant is always there to witness it.

Always watching. Always judging.

I recently went to lunch with my luxury vehicle-driving sister who chose yet another valet-friendly restaurant. {Hurray! Let the valet-induced anxiety begin!}

Me: {On the windiest day of the year I wear a dress, because I hate myself. Pull up behind a luxury vehicle. Feel inadequate. Valet opens my door} “Uh… sorry. Yup. Just, um, just give me a second here.” {Attempt to exit vehicle like a BOSS. Fail}

Valet: {Looks away; refusing to acknowledge my existence}

Me: {Am now overcome with the need to explain myself to the attendant who could care less} “Sorry about that. It’s kind of difficult to get out of the car sometimes. Especially in a dress! Because… you know” {Expecting valet to understand. HE clearly does not. Attempt to recover by continuing to explain myself} “I just don’t want to flash anyone! {Even though I suspect I just did.} That’s kind of my nightmare!”

Valet: {Staring at me with disdain}

Me: “Because… you know. Britney? And also, NO ONE needs to see that, if you know what I’m sayin’?”

Valet: {Has no idea what I’m “sayin’”}

Me: “Because I’m not quite “groomed” these days. You know?” {Why the @#$# did I just say that OUT LOUD?}

Valet: {Look of disdain turns to look of disgust}

Me: “Sorry! I have no idea why I just told you that!” {nervous laughter} “How awkward!” {Have now made situation far more awkward by acknowledging it. Throw my car key at him and run into restaurant}

I ran into the restaurant as if the comfort of my sister’s company and a glass of wine could save me. It’s like a child who fears monsters under the bed covering their face with the blanket and feeling completely safe. Except that at some point I would need to exit the restaurant and face the same valet attendant who would probably never forget me, my face or my vehicle for as long as he lives.

After several glasses of wine, I exited the restaurant with a look-if-you-dare-you-awful-valet-attendant-man-person-you attitude. And by that I mean that I cowered behind my sister as I handed over my ticket.

The same attendant pulled up with my vehicle and held the door open for me. He did not look in my direction as I got into the car, nor did I attempt to explain my ridiculously awkward behavior any further. I just shoved money in his general direction, jumped into the car most ungracefully (probably flashing everyone in the parking lot – again?), and sped off.

In my Valentine’s Day post, I discussed the implications of what a holiday focused on conveying love means for someone who, despite his or her occasional charm, is generally awkward. But what are the consequences of everyday awkwardness in the boudoir?

Regardless of what your sexual kink(s) might be, you’ve probably encountered someone who has asked you to do something that made you uncomfortable. I think we’re all having a collective flashback to the episode of Sex and the City when the Politician asks Carrie to pee on him. Right?

Well for me, it’s being asked to talk “dirty”. I realize it’s not the most scandalous of things, but I just…it makes me uncomfortable. And as you all know, when I’m uncomfortable I laugh loudly and inappropriately in people’s faces.

To this point in my life, I’ve mostly gotten away with giving the vague response of “me too” in these situations.

“You make me so hot”

“Uh… me too”

But that doesn’t always work.

“You make me so hard”

“Me too!”

“What did you just say?”

“Me too?”

I had a boyfriend who not only enjoyed talking dirty, but insisted on a response. I was able to carry on with my generic “me too” for a while, but one day Boyfriend laid out in explicit detail all the things about me that turned him on. I thought, “Oh, that’s nice” and continued on with my day.

Unfortunately, Boyfriend wanted me to tell him in equally explicit and uncomfortable detail all the things I liked. Naturally, my first instinct was to bust out in my best impression of Sir Mix-A-Lot:

I like big butts and I cannot lie

You other brothers can’t deny

{mumbling through the part of the song I couldn’t remember}

…that butt you got makes me so horny!

Ooh, Rump-o’-smooth-skin…

{Boyfriend walks out of the room in a huff} Was it something I said?

Convinced that my inability to talk dirty back to him was a major defect that needed to be corrected, Boyfriend decided he would teach me. I argued that he knew I was awkward when he met me and he should really know better, but his major defect was his stubbornness.

So there I was… Boyfriend’s soulful eyes locked with my ever-widening panicky eyes and I begin to laugh uncontrollably. Boyfriend will not be deterred.

According to an exhaustive 3-second Google search, “Gaydar” is defined as “a colloquialism referring to the intuitive ability of a person to assess others’ sexual orientation as gay”.

According to friends, my Gaydar is broken.

I refused to accept that I could not differentiate between a straight man and a gay man, despite the fact that on two separate occasions I had gone on a date with a straight man believing it to be an outing with a possible new gay best friend.

I refused to accept it, until one day…

I was out in the city celebrating a coworker’s birthday when I spotted my client, Cathy, on the other side of the bar. When I went over to say hello, she introduced me to the man standing beside her as being her “friend, Benny”.

I immediately liked Benny. He was a short, funny, quirky gay man who had some of the wildest and hilarious stories I’ve heard to date. He also had an appreciation for a good high-five, as do I when I’m drunk. And when I’m sober. I like high-fives a lot. {cough}

Co-worker: “Did you have fun at my birthday the other night?”

Me: “Yeah! It was a great time.”

Co-worker: “What did you think of Cathy’s boyfriend?”

Me: “I didn’t meet him”

Co-worker: “Yes you did! You talked to him for, like, half an hour!”

Me: “No! That was Benny, her friend. He’s gay.” {duh}

Co-worker: “That was Benny, her BOYFRIEND”

Me: “OH MY GOSH! And there I was laughing it up with him thinking he was her friend and making him give me a million high-fives. The whole time she probably thought I was flirting or something. When that’s clearly not what I was doing. I feel terrible!”

Co-worker: {shakes her head at me and walks away laughing}

I felt terrible, but I had been emailing with Cathy earlier that morning and she seemed perfectly fine. I was sure she hadn’t interpreted my behavior the other night in any way other than friendly. About an hour later I’d completely forgotten my conversation with co-worker when the phone rings. It was Cathy, no doubt calling me to check up on the status of our latest project.